They were browner than toast, their haircuts long grown into shaggy, wild representations of their fall and winter selves. No shirts, no shoes, straight out of the car, doors flung wide, car parked at an angle to the curb up by the road above the grass beach at the lake. Cole in black shorts, Caleb in blue, they would run down the grass, out onto the dock and cannonball into the water before I could get my seatbelt unfastened (the latch stuck).
Once in the water I can't tell them apart as I watch them swim to the raft. First one there gets to drive their father's car home. They fought over it all the time. I see Caleb catch up with Cole (younger and faster, at seventeen) and he hauls himself up on Cole's shoulders and pushes him under with all his strength (a lot, at age twenty). He laughs and lets go, pushing off enough to easily win the race. Cole bursts to the surface with a laughed curse and grabs Caleb's ankle, wrenching him back just as he touches the weathered wood. He bellows and turns, his arms raised in victory, meeting my eyes just as I manage to exit the car at last. He grins and my eyes drift toward Cole. He is younger and smaller. I guess I identify with him. He's the underdog, the unpredictable wild brother of the two.
He's fine, he is halfway back, breaststroke, just under the surface. I smile. He's really cute and he doesn't give me nearly as hard a time as Lochlan does. But what do I know?
